


Twigs And Stones Will Break My Bones, But Your Words Will Forever Haunt Me

by Symmet



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Maybe some happy too, Mostly sad things, just bits and pieces that don't have a home really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 09:47:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 20,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5043619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Symmet/pseuds/Symmet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where Deus Lavellan has lived the life of Inquisitor many times. Too many. And loved, and lost, and died. Each time.</p><p>Collection of short dribbles and drabbles for that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Come, Vhenan

**Author's Note:**

> Deus knows what is coming, has been waiting for Solas to invite her to speak with him, and Cole is sitting with Varric when it happens.

"Would that they would test me, would that they would test me, would that they would test me," Cole whispered to himself fervently.

"You okay?" Varric asked uncertainly, one hand extending towards the spirit.

"No. But she can't remember the last time she was."

"What's wrong?"

"He's going to leave me, leave me, leave." Cole said.

"Are you sad?" Varric said, realizing he wasn't fully addressing Cole.

"No, not yet, but I will be. When he is gone, then the pain, then the mourning. For now I am alone in the Truth. Soon I will just be alone." Cole was on his haunches, rocking back and forth.

"What can I do to help?" Varric asked warily, coming to crouch beside his friend.

"We are granules of sand before the crashing wave," Cole said, "I will be so sad, so sad, I don't even know if I will cry - _can_ cry - when the pain so great you cannot even scream, because the physical which defined it cannot quantify the amount you bear. No tears can measure me once it is done. I have cried an ocean for him. And Mythal heard me.”

Varric doesn’t say anything, frozen. Mythal, shit, wasn't that the dragon god lady Twigs was always going on about?

“ _Deus?_ ” He asks, all pained and confused and shocked.

Cole keeps rocking, "I don't know that I will be able to cry."


	2. Bittersweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Second Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Varric can see an angry crush 37 miles away

The second time she lived this life, she fought against loving him with ever fibre of her being, ached and raged against the love that had torn her asunder, forced her to relive all her pains.

She unmade herself from the Wolf to the Dragon.

_I will guard myself better, this time. I will learn to unlove him._

She was wrong, of course, and perhaps deep down she even knew this.

 _Not again_ , she had promised herself. _Never again_ , she had lied.

It did not stop her from trying, equal parts stubborn and terrified. Could she survive loving him again? (Yes.)

Did she even want to? (...)

But she cannot focus on that. She straddles this perilous line between falling in love with him all over again and him hating the very sight of her.

Pranks.

She is always finding an excuse to target him. Varric knows, she suspects. Not all, but some divine premonitions are available to him, she's sure. Especially when he gives her a knowing look accross the tavern while shes planning a prank for Solas with Sera. But she'll not be dissuaded. This is the most gratifying form of revenge. For the world he killed and the people she lost. Perhaps also for the ones he lost, too. As if there was that much a difference between them anyways.

-

Solas has never known why the Dalish Inquisitor seems perpetually irked by his words or eager to anger him. Either she ignores him or is suddenly putting all her efforts towards causing him to stumble. Her intensity belays the supposed innocence of her actions. She seems to know exactly what to say to infuriate him, too. She is worse, perhaps, than Sera. That idea in and of itself is haunting.

He still has no idea what he has done to offend her so - besides the rare observation of the Dalish. All he knows is that it is done half desperately and then half furiously, with such ichor that he knows it is no joke, even when she slides him a broken smile. Her eyes betray something darker, something sharp and wounded. Sometimes he wonders if she knows who he is. But she can't. Otherwise she would have actually threatened him by now. Or perhaps had him killed.

No. She is simply mysteriously hateful of him.

Varric snorts, "Oh, Chuckles." He says.

But she _does_ persecute him, knowing all she needs to do so just below the line of decency. The others are unaware. It is like a game of cat and mouse, except she attacks him like a mouse and treats him like a cat.

He had long ceased questioning it, Varric by his side. He had mostly given up the pretense of friendship for whatever complicated, angry relationship existed between them, one that he had no say in.

She is childish, reckless, petulant.

Yes, he had long ceased questioning it, but with the fervor Twigs has in regards to assaulting him, he doubts he will ever run out of material about which to complain.

"Only for you, Chuckles." Varric would laugh, "Only for you."


	3. Sad Hungers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas gets into an argument with Twigs. There is yelling. Twigs walks away. Solas follows. Twigs goes to her room. Solas follows.
> 
> Solas attempts to get his point across so much that the only thing Twigs can think of that will shut him up is a kiss. She'll hate herself later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Varric, Solas, and discussion of The Kiss

“What was it like?” Varric said, “Not in a weird way. It just… it seems like its been building up for a while.”

“And I was oblivious. Not one of my finer moments.” Solas said with a sigh, “If you can count this entire venture as a ‘moment’.”

Varric nodded, eyes dropping from Solas’ face, as if he could tell Solas hadn’t quite recovered from it, hadn’t quite collected himself, and his expressions were meant to be private.

“In answer to your question,” Solas said quietly, staring at his hands in his lap, “There was something broken in it that had no right to be.”


	4. Second Life, Prodding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The life after the first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Varric seems to take it upon himself to ask the important questions and define Twigs and Solas' relationship. No one is especially sure why.

“Do you hate Solas?”

Varric had been thinking it to himself, well, almost since the beginning, really. Every time she was around Solas, it was like something inside of her would snap, or get close to snapping, and she did everything she could to piss him off, get him to stop talking, or drive him away. But it was only around Solas. Anyone else, she was good. Well, maybe not Templars, but basically good. Usually.

She still treated the Templars with some respect, at least.

Bitter stilled, face suddenly blank with surprise.

Varric caught Solas out of the corner of his eye, pausing mid-stride as he’d been about to enter the room. Her back was to him, she didn’t see. He looked as curious as Varric was.

“He’s a smart ass.” She said, “And he loves the sound of his own voice. And he’s bald. And he has this incredibly bitchy sigh!”

Solas’ expression of interest melted into something uglier, and he turned silently and was gone, she still unaware. Varric winced. He’d done it this time with his stupid questions. She kept going, however, getting riled up.

“He likes to act like he’s better than everyone. He blames ignorance but doesn’t do anything to cure it. He walks around barefoot -“

“You walk around barefoot.” Varied said.

“I KNOW.” She said furiously, “And he could go on for hours about the Fade! And he makes this face whenever he has tea! He’s a brat! And a bully! And he’s bald, have I mentioned that?”

“You have.” Varric said.

She slumped in her chair, and a long pause stretched out between them. “No.” she says finally.

“No what?”

“No I don’t hate him.” She looked worn, thin, “But I keep trying to convince myself.”


	5. Wet Lips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previous Chapter  
> but Alternatively, While Drunk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Varric employs the use of alcoholic beverages to loosen the tongues of perhaps unwilling or wary Inquisitors.  
> For scientific purposes, of course.

“You hate Solas, huh?” Varric said with a chuckle, motioning towards the incapacitated Inquisitor with a bottle that sloshed heavily. Though not as heavily as he would have liked.

She snorted, then shook herself, then dissolved into giggles when Varric tried - and missed - to take a drink from said bottle.

“Hey, don’t… don’t evade.” Varric said, ignoring the slight slurring of words.

She leaned back in her chair to look at him, smiling. The smile faltered, then slipped off as she considered what he had actually said.

“Do I hate him.” She repeated, sounding mildly annoyed. She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. Varric, too, seemed to sober, blinking and setting his drink down.

“Hate not a strong enough word?” He said thoughtfully.

“Hate not a strong enough word.” She agreed, tipping forward so he could pour her another shot. She downed it in one go, then offered her glass again.

“Oh.” He said, “Wow. I thought you didn’t like drinking.”

“I don’t.” She said, motioning for him to give her some more, “But we’re talking about Solas.”. She downed it again and motioned for him to keep coming.

“Do you… despise him? No? Loathe? Detest? Abhor? Extremely dislike?”

Each time she shook her head until the last one made her start to giggle again.

Varric sat back, contemplating the now empty bottle, “Well, shit Twigs, I’ve run out of words _AND_ alcohol. That’s not good.”

Neither of them noticed the elf watching from the shadows of a door way. Solas didn’t look pleased, to say the least. There was a slight curl to his lip, almost as if he had just downed a very bitter, strong tea. Perhaps he felt inclined to stay only because of how nasty it seemed, so that he might use it against her at some point in the future.

“Hmmm.” She said, “No, that’s not. I have work I’m supposed to do.” She got up, hand on the table for balance, before she regained herself. She shook her head, then gave a slight groan when she couldn’t focus, “I hate _alcohol_ , though. Is that good enough for you?”

“No. Why’d you drink all my stuff if you don’t like it so much?”

She chuckled, “I like _you_. You like to drink. So I drink. Drank. Drunk. I’m -”

“Is it true you tried to make Solas drink tea once? Just, just because?” Varric said.

Her gaze became blank, and then she began to laugh until she was clutching her stomach, “Oh, oh, ow, ow ow.” She said, “Ow. Oww, _Varric_.”

Varric snorted, “That a yes? Or did I just give you a bad idea?”

She sighed, still bent over, then with a slight moan, straightened, backing up into the table slightly for support. “Yes. I suppose I did try to do that once. It was very enjoyable to watch. Therapeutic, even.”

Varric leaned back, “Well I’ll be damned. How’d you get that to happen?”

“Copious amounts of threatening, I suppose. He also didn’t actually know me, then. I couldn’t try that now, that’s for sure. Ow.” She sat back down gingerly, still massaging her stomach.

“Will wonders never cease. So you do hate him, then.” Varric murmured, “Don’t hurt me if I ask, but what did he ever do to you?”

She became very still, all of the mirth suddenly drained from her expression, “Would it be alright if I didn’t answer that?” She whispered.

Solas couldn’t see her expression from where he stood, arms crossed, leaning on the frame of a door, but he could see Varric’s face as he attempted to steer the conversation away, to draw her mind off whatever she was thinking, and get rid of whatever terrible look she wore. It made him pause, in his thoughts of her arrogance, her faults, her flaws. Enough that he stayed while they began useless chatter.

Varric pulled out all the stops. Jokes, stories, rambling thoughts without ends or beginnings, eventually the both of them relaxed again, the atmosphere became easy, warm.

“And he said, Hawke said ‘Wounded coast? I wonder if that's near the Injured Cliffs...or the Limping Hills...Massive Head Trauma Bay?’”Varric burst out laughing, slapping his knees, wiping a tear from his eyes, “Ahh, I didn’t laugh then, of course. It would have gone to his head.”

“Like Massive Head Trauma Bay?” Bitter offered, a small smile playing her face as he hooted at the joke.

There was, almost, a collective sigh, as if not just they, but the room and world around them, had let go of a breath.

“I want to kill him.” Bitter said blankly, “And I want to kiss him.”

“Who, Hawke? Don’t kiss Hawke, Fenris bites.” Varric said, and started cracking up again. She didn’t join in. He blinked, his mouth hanging open at her expression, Solas guessed.

“Care to clarify?” Varric said.

Bitter got up, no longer swaying, and bent forward to place a chaste kiss on Varric’s forehead. Quietly, “I’m madly in love with that stupid, bald, prat of a creature.” She said, and then walked off.

“No kidding.” Varric said to the empty room.

At least until he saw Solas, just as shocked as he was, still watching the door way she had left through.

“Did you - was that just me or - ?”

“A joke, I’m sure. I have done nothing to gain her love.” Solas said quietly, turning to look at the dwarf, who didn’t seem convinced. He pushed off of the wall from where he’d stood and walked over to hand Varric some designs for Bianca. They seemed trite, now. He wasn’t sure what other excuse he’d have, though.

“I’m also pretty sure you didn’t do anything to get her scorn, either, but that’s been there since the day we all met.” Varric said, looking at the papers.

Solas paused to consider this, decided to remain silent, and then exited from the other door.

“What a twist.” Varric mumbled to himself, and then a wicked grin spread over his face, “My publisher is gonna _love_ this.”


	6. Wet Lips (Cont.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation, of alcohol induced revelations previous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Varric doesn't let things go and Solas is nasty good at dropping all the eaves

“You guys never even met before - before the whole giant hole opening in the sky thing.” Varric said by way of greeting the next morning.

Twig groaned, sent away Cullen with a sigh, grabbed Varric under his arm and nearly hauled him outside.

Solas considered himself lucky that Varric's voice carried, and he’d been walking down a parallel hall way, close enough to hear, far enough that they didn’t know he was there. He followed them to the little garden Bitter kept to herself, taking refuge in one of the rooms over looking it, empty.

“Are you nosy by default or did you have to work at it for years to be any good?” She said sourly when they stopped.

“I kind of wish I could say it was a skill, but I’m a natural born knowledge enthusiast.” Varric said, “Listen, I … I probably shouldn’t meddle. Hell, I know I shouldn’t, but… Okay, I know he’s not the sweetest fruit in the tree, but I don’t think it’s fair for you to - _unless I’m overstepping my grounds, which I absolutely am_.” Varric's voice had become rushed by the end, and a glance from the window sill where he was eavesdropping showed Solas that the dwarf had put up his hands in both appeasement and mercy.

She had evidently not liked that.

“Look, I… Bitter, I feel like one of you has got to be pulling my leg. He’s baffled, and I don’t know why you drag him around when -“

“Because I made a mistake.” She said, and a hush seemed to fall over the clearing.

Varric sighed, “Okay, maybe it’s not as simple as ‘one of you is messing with me’. I mean, I guess it was kind of weird that he stuck around even when you treated him like -“

“He is not staying for me.” Came the stiff reply. “He stays for no one.”

“So you _do_ have history? I’m confused.”

“We…” She shook her head, “It’s complicated.”

“Ain’t that always so.” Varric’s sigh of agreement came. He motioned at the base of the tree and after a moment, her arms, which had been crossed, fell apart and she followed him there.

“So, what level of complicated are we talking?” Varric said.

She made a face, “The kind you can’t talk about.”

“That’s unfortunate, what happens if you do?”

“A lot of very unpredictable, likely bad, things happen. I probably won’t talk about it. I shouldn’t have even said what I did.”

“That you’re madly in love with him?”

“Yes.” She said in a clipped tone, “That.”

“Well, the ‘madly’ part is true, that I know. What did he do to piss you off so bad? He hurt you?”

Her face changed so rapidly, Solas hardly had time to catch the pain that flitted across it. “Very, very much.” She said tightly.

“He ever say sorry?” Varric said, “Did he ever explain himself?”

“That is… where it gets complicated.”

“The complicated you won’t talk about complicated?”

“The one and same.”

“Perfect. So all I know now is that you’re angry at him.”

“I am… not… angry at him. I am… angry.”

“That _does_ sound complicated.”

“It is.”

“Well, it explains why you didn’t have him thrown out the second day. You could have.”

“I would not have done that. For all that I make him suffer, I do not think I would ever intentionally hurt him.”

“There’s the in love bit, continue.”

She punched him softly in the shoulder, “I get angry at him. I do. And then I pity him. And them I want to kill him. And then I want to help him. It is… very frustrating.”

“Which you take out on him.”

“Whole-heartedly.”

“Hmm”

“Indeed.”

“You ever consider forgiving him?”

“Yes. No. It’s…”

“Complicated?”

“Yes, but that’s not it. I have forgiven him already. I shouldn’t be so- Yes, it’s complicated.” She gave a choked laugh, shaking her head as she bowed her head.

He patted her on the shoulder, “I’m here, listening, promising not to reveal too much in my next big novel.”

She chuckled, “That is irrelevant. We will both be long gone by then.”

“Both? What, you’re not sticking around?”

“No.”

“And you know he won’t?”

“Unfortunately.” A look of sadness crossed her face, but she looked away.

“You don’t want him to go?”

“I would stay if he did.” She said softly, “But I know he won’t."

… the silence grew slightly awkward, and Tethras cast a nervous glance upwards towards the grey skies. A slight chilling wind had settled.

“I have forgiven him already.” She said finally.

“You kind of treat him like shit. Okay, no, but that’s what he feels like.”

“I want to be petty. I want to be childish. I need to be. I won’t-“ she shook her head, “He’s done many things he shouldn’t have and taken many lives that didn’t deserve to be taken.”

“O…kay.”

“He’s a liar.” This was whispered, and a look of dull pain slipped over her face.

“What, Chuckles? Cheating? Never saw that one in the books.” Varric said, half joking, his smile not reaching his eyes.

“And you won’t, because he didn't. And I’ve forgiven him.”

“So what’s up?”

“He ruined everything for me. It’s only fair I try to do it back in my feeble, childish way.”

“What?”

“He ruined tea. And feet. And beds and painting and magic and books and laughter - oh - he ruined laughter for me. And even if he hadn’t he’s still in there. I still see him every day. And I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what, Twigs?” Varric said gently.

“Afraid I’ll make the same mistake again. It’s so hard to talk to him. I want to strangle him but I want to hold him, too. I want to promise everything to him, even though I know he’ll take it away from me in the end. It’s what he does.” A little broken noise escaped her, looking down, and finally a small thin hand rose up to wipe at her face.

“Oh, hell. I’ll kill him myself.” Varric promised.

She snuffled and chuckled, “Don’t. It’s… it’s not entirely his fault. Which I guess is why I don’t entirely hate him, and I’m not entirely angry at him. I just…”

She snorted, sitting up, hand falling back to her side “I must endure."

“Weighty.”

“I agree.”

“So, what, he showed you the wonders of the world - or, I don’t know, what’s his idea of romantic, the Fade? He showed you the wonders of the Fade and he dumped you?”

She blinked, “In the Fade. He dumped me in the Fade.”

“Wow.”

“After he told me I was beautiful and kissed me.”

“Are you sure you don’t to kill him? I kind of want to kill him.”

She sighed, “I am extremely sure I don’t want him to die. Killing him generally results in that.”

“Torture? Just a little. You said he ruined feet, right? We could get rid of a couple toes, nobody would miss ‘em.” His tone was joking, and a small smile did come to her face.

She swatted him, “I would.” She sighed, again looking forlorn, “I definitely would.”

“Oh, damn. Why the hell would he go and do a thing like that?” Varric sounded angry, finally, perhaps starting to get up, one hand on Bianca.

“No, Varric don’t. Don’t. He’s - it’s not - It’s complicated, okay? Remember that? He’s had a lot of names. You don’t really think Bitter is my name, do you?”

“So what? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet and all that. Faces don’t change.”

“Yes, yes, I imagine they can. They do. Mine. Mine did.”

Solas peeked again out of the window. Varric was, as he had thought, in-between sitting and standing, one leg propped up, one hand on Bianca, and the other arm under Bitter’s hand, “That’s… that’s um. Magic, fuck, it was magic, wasn’t it? Of course it was."

He paused, then let her pull him back down, “And you mustn’t ever tell him. Promise me. Promise.”

Varric groaned, “I’m planning to _write_ about this, sweet cheeks. Or I _was_. Not to even mention looking him in the eyes ever again.”

“It won’t matter by the time you write your book. I’ll be gone. He’ll be - Dread Wolf knows where he’ll be.”

The name sent prickles up Solas’ spine and he leaned over again to look, but Varric was talking, and he could not see the expression on her face for a swaying bough of leaves.

“So, what, he doesn’t know you’re the gal he scorned way back when? Wait. Does that mean you were, I mean, okay I _definitely_ shouldn’t -“

“Yes. Yes, I had boobs.” Bitter said, unimpressed, “That had better not end up as a quote in your book, you hear me?”

“No way I’m gonna bother trying to work that one in.” Varric agreed.

“To say he doesn’t know would be… well, it would be an understatement.”

“How can you less than not know someone?”

“It’s complicated.”

“This again?”

“It’s a big kind of complicated.”

Varric sighed, then snorted, leaning back against the tree, “And here I thought you were simple.”

“I used to be.” A look of what Solas could only describe as longing passed over her face, “Abelas, I was both what this Inquisition needed as well as what it wanted, once.” She was looking at her hands.

“And what are you now?”

“Just what it needs. The barest minimum of that even then.”

“Twigs, you can’t be older than me. Don’t go beating yourself up about what you are and aren’t. You have time.”

“I don’t claim to be older than you, Varric Tethras, but I wonder if you’d say the same knowing the truth.” She smiled sadly at him.

“You’re like five.”

The surprised a full piece of laughter from her, cheeks flush, eyes bright. It lasted barely a moment, but Solas was not the only one who caught it.

“Did he do that to you? Does he even know he did that to you?” Varric said with some level of disgust, “You’re always so… spritely. Have you ever really even been happy? Have I ever seen you truly happy? Damn, do you even mean it when you smile?"

“I... Varric, I can’t say he didn’t but… It would be wrong to say he did.”

“And what would be the correct way to say it, exactly?”

“I am how I am now because of Solas.”

“Well, that’s the same bloody thing.”

“Only to people who are honest. He’s made me almost as good a liar as he is.” She looked away, her smile fading.

“Aw, Twigs, don’t cry, I’m sorry. They’re completely different I see it now. I’m an author, I should know that.”

She sniffled, smiling, then got up, so quickly several scattered leaves danced off in her wake, and she turned and extended her hand towards the dwarf, “Garas. Come. Enough of this, I am being silly, and you are encouraging it.”

“So there ever a chance you’ll be nice to Solas?” Varric said offhandedly as she hauled him up.

She looked stricken, but by the time he looked up, her face had become neutral again, “I… believe me, I want to, but… but I can’t say no to him. I can’t… I’d do just about anything for him. And if I let that happen, I will break again. And I can’t - _I can’t_.”

“So, what, be mean and he’ll never ask?”

“It’s worked so far, hasn’t it?” She said quietly.

Varric let loose a round of explicitives, swearing with zeal. She pulled back her hand in surprise.

“Sorry.” He said when he was finished, “Just… damn. I mean I knew you were trying your hardest to annoy him, but… that’s just… that’s some high level mind fuckery right there.”

“Solas is high level mind fuckery incarnate.” She said grimly.

“No shit.”

They walked together from the grove, and Solas quietly went back to his room.

This was…

He had no idea what this was.

And he had no idea what to do about it, either.


	7. This Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan hadn't remembered she'd lived this life before until it was too late.
> 
> Alone, in a clearing, she'd remembered their tragic stories. She weeps as the weight of a thousand lifetimes attempt to consume her, and Cole wants to help.
> 
>  
> 
> _This time he will save her._

Solas has been standing jagged and cold since he returned without her. His answers are short and clipped.

They think the two had a fight - he lets them. There was no fight but the one to leave her.

He tells himself he is freeing her, but Cole can feel her spirit on the other side of the Fade, halfway across Thedas, keening and pining and breaking into bits under a thousand memories of the same pain. 

Cole had always known that she was _more_ \- like Solas, but Solas had all of his parts, and remembered them. Someone had made her forget - herself, maybe - Cole thinks, and of course he hadn't undone it because they were so full of pain that he knows he would have hidden it away from her too. But now the dam has broken, and she is half a world away, suffering as Solas tries to tell himself it was for the best.

He doesn't know what she is going through. The knot grows more tangled in his chest with every passing day, each moment she is not back and each moment he anticipates it. _The Dread Wolf got his name somewhere._

She thinks all spirits and demons experience their purpose - love spirits care, compassion spirits comfort, rage demons are wrathful - so why, _why_ she muses, would that mean a Fear demon is not terrified, or that a Despair demon does not experience anguish?

She is right, Cole knows - _and the Dread Wolf dreads._

Maybe he can see past his dread - he's done it before. Maybe he will understand, if Cole tells him.

So he walks up to the apostate.

"Cole," The elf greets without turning towards him, "I know it must be hard to resist the urge, but I would appreciate if you respected my wishes."

He'd told Cole earlier not to try and ease his hurt. That he preferred not to speak. Cole understands, had kept away from the black spool of tangled knots knitting over Solas' head and curling in the air. For him. But he can't keep away - hers is white, fractured glass of a mirror, thin strands of pain breaking out even now across the surface, shattered into pain and despair and every time he breaks her heart and turns away, he unknowingly strikes it. A thousand hims, all hitting the little mirror. It needs to stop. For her.

He left Solas alone for him, but he approaches again for her.

"Yours is an old hurt." Cole says, "But hers is too."

Solas had opened his mouth to insist, to quietly demand Cole leave, but it draws him up short. He doesn't turn towards the spirit, but Cole sees his shoulders slump slightly and feels the pained realization that perhaps Cole is attempting to fix her hurt instead.

"Yes," Cole agrees, "But I can't fix it alone. Not anymore, it's too big in the glen. She still hasn't left - can't. Their voices are so loud, dragging your voice over her ears a thousand different times saying the same thing. Her pain is so _big_ now. It would have been better if it stayed forgotten, but it couldn't have stayed that way. We just hoped."

Solas turns towards him now, confusion on his face, parts clearing as he tries to piece together his meaning. He is good at it. Cole isn't worried. Not about that.

"Are there - are spirits or demons clinging to her in the Fade? Cole, it has been _days_." A note of panic enters his voice, guilt that he'd left her like that, guilt that he hadn't heard her pleas, incredulity that Cole hadn't spoken up earlier.

"Too many memories of broken hearts pouring into her head," Cole agrees, "Pent up, pretty and painful, shards of glass scattered. Her feet will bleed if she tries to walk through it. But they aren't the problem. They're trying to _help_. They know the pain, it's getting too big for one person. She can't hold on to it alone anymore, even if the voices stay with her, Despair chains them all together. Only you can help."

Solas' face crumples, "I _cannot_." He insists softly.

"You're the only one. When she picks up enough pieces to come back, you can mend so _many_ of them!" Cole insists, "You wouldn't even know you're doing it. Every step you take away from her makes the old pain older, too old for even you soon. Please stop doing this to her." He pleads.

Solas is unnaturally still, emotions warring over saying no and saying yes and asking more and forcing Cole to go.

"What do you mean, too old?" He finally manages to settle on, confusion coloring his tone, "Perhaps an ancient spirit or demon? Or a curse?"

"No." Cole frets, fidgets, fumbles for the words so Solas will understand, will _see_ , because if he sees, he'll stop, but right now he only wants to stop seeing, wants to not see her as People, even though she is, has been, for so long. Almost as long as he has. A thousand lifetimes, squandered agony and pain in broken, dying worlds. She can't go on forever, not like this, not with him loving and leaving her always. It's too much. _It's too much._

"Older than the moon. She's so young, but it's so old, older than she wants to be, growing older with each day. It's been there since the beginning, waiting, watching with her, but it never really started growing until now." His fingers curl around the others in front of him as he forces himself to calm, even as he rolls on the balance of the balls of his feet for some measure of relief.

He feels Solas' thoughts turn muddled with concern and even more confusion. "Why did you not address this earlier?" Solas murmurs in shock

Cole calms, slightly,"She must have put it away for a while, it's not the kind hurt that can be forgotten - only unknown. But right now it is remaking it's place in her bones. They are tearing at her and trying to hold her together all at once. The pain is too much, too great. That's why she didn't remember. She still doesn't understand. She keeps asking how so much pain be so familiar?" He grows agitated again, feeling her distinct pull through the Fade - her pain, signing and screaming for him, "She doesn't know its hers, but that will crush her. It will crush me too, if I go."

Solas had long turned to watch him in full, and frowns at what he hears.

"Do you know what caused this?" He asks carefully.

"You." Cole answers immediately, then catches himself at the ripple that shudders through Solas' own pain.

"Not just you but all you, too. You've hurt her before, but neither of you thought to know it. She wasn't prepared to remember the pain and now its trying to unmake her. Oh...oh no, the pain got _brighter_. Please, let me try again."

Solas finally slumps fully, looking away, murmuring to himself, "At every turn, I bring ruin upon those I hold most dear - you more than any other, ma vhenan."

He straightens, "Very well, Cole. I can go to her. I will try to help, if I can, but I cannot... I cannot stay with her. It is for the best."

Cole shakes his head, but leads them out of the rotunda anyways, "Fraying at the edges, frost and fear thick in her belly, the dread is past but now it is worse. They are all crying, for themselves - for her. _This must be the end, please let it be the end._ They thought they could be more for you and the world but they were wrong. Or they think so. They just need to adjust. You can help. Smooth the hurt over like I do, but it'll hurt you back because you care and you won't like seeing her pain so sharp. It'll cut you back because you'll let it. You shouldn't. Every time he made the same choice you did. You can't fix that - just yours."

They are packed - or Solas is - frowning at Cole's words but not interrupting. 

"Will they attempt to stop me - or hurt her further?" He inquires of the spirits. They're not the same as what he thinks, but Cole doesn't want to scare him away. The line to Crestwood is tenuous - they haven't even left Skyhold.

"No, never, they want you to help - you'll be hurting them but you'll be helping them too. You'll be what they never had. There's no hate there. In the end, they never could bring themselves to hate. It's painful because of Despair but mostly because of Love. If you can piece her back together, you'll be piecing _them_ back together. They'll be able to endure again, for another hundred lifetimes, another hundred rifts. Another hundred broken hearts."

Solas freezes, hands on the reins of the buck he sits atop.

Cole feels his will to journey back to her slip, notices the word " _Heart_ " whisper in his mind using her voice. Sees the pieces start to fit together to form a cracked and bleeding whole. Too clever, she always said, her heart was too clever.

Cole agrees.

"No." Solas says simply, " _No,_ they...they are spirits. Cole" He says it like he is demanding confirmation, like a broken question. It hangs in the air too long.

Cole hesitates and Solas closes his eyes. "Ah." He says, as if it is that simple. The tangle above his head is a maelstrom. The buck turns back towards the stable. He will not go. Cannot go.

But Cole stops the beast, plants his feet between them, furious.

"No, you don't want to know what it means, but that's not fair. She never wants to know, either, but now she won't be able to help it. But you could help her. You can't fix the old pains, the other times she was abandoned, but you can make them worth it. She changes everything every time. You can change everything for once."

Solas bows under the weight. Bends, comes that close to snapping. Just when Cole thinks he will sit up, he breaks, the pain curling around his carefully maintained features. A dry sob breaking through his lips. Guilt for a thousand lifetimes spent leaving her. He _knows_ it now.

Cole calms, "You can make it worth it." he promises softly, "The hurt wont go away, but the love can drown it out with joy. She needs you." He presses a hand to the wet snout of the buck, then repeats softly, "She needs you."

Solas straightens, blinks rapidly for a couple moments, then nods down at the spirit.

"How much time do I have?" He murmurs.

"A couple days." Cole replies instantly, drawing away, "They're too much and many for her alone, even if they belong to her and she to them. She hasn't woken or rested since you left."

Solas' expression turns brittle, but Cole knows the hurt needed to be said, that if Solas dallied and discovered her condition upon arriving his self-hatred would increase tenfold.

A sudden doubt niggles his mind, and Cole catches it.

"You can save her." Cole whispered.

Solas bowed his head, "Even when I am the one who destroyed her in the first place?"

Cole catches the barest hint of the past memories through the tangle of Solas' pain to her own confused cacophony. The image of a slight elf with fiery hair and a smattering of freckles and a gleam in green eyes fills his mind before it is gone, only a whisper of words it wants heard. Then nothing.

He uses its words anyways.

" _Especially_ because of that, Eggman." He says with confidence.

Solas opens his mouth to perhaps ask who Cole is reading from, but the spirit smacks the hind leg of the buck and it races off.

Solas does not turn around.

He will save her.

_This time he will save her._


	8. Twigs, She Laughs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She laughs - of course she laughs. She tells herself she thinks it's funny.
> 
> Something wrenches in her chest and she still knows it's true.
> 
> The tradegy is funny. What had she said once?
> 
> Laugh or cry.
> 
> So she laughs.

“Is this funny to you?” He’d said it sharply, furiously.

“I have learned” Twigs said carefully, “That you are given only two options in this little life of ours. To laugh,” there was a gnarled and dead branch in her hands, color faded from exposure to air, "or to cry. And to reject the former is the devote yourself to the later.”

She turned the branch over and over, eyes on the crooked, brittle leaves bobbing from the motion.

“So yes,” She murmured, and Solas could see in that one moment a great and terrible pain was gathering in her eyes, “I think this is funny.”

The fingers trembled slightly, stopping, a slight, twitching frown grew on her face, and the voice that emerged wobbled very slightly, on the precipice of breaking, a slight ripple in a pond, “Hilarious, in fact."

She dropped the branch suddenly, and before the leaves had settled on the cobbled stones, she had turned her heel sharply and made a retreat. Solas did not fool himself into believing she fled him. It made no difference that he had been standing there, otherwise she would have acknowledged him when she left. But she didn’t.

He might as well have been a gust of air to her.

Or so she let him think.


	9. Cruel Punishment For Simple Cattle, Indeed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Early in the adventure, Twigs remembers some things, learns others, and relives a whole lot of both.

They are merely wandering through the Hinterlands when a rich, sonorous voice curls around her ear and nearly startles her soul out of her body.

“I sense an elvhen artifact nearby.”

Then he has the nerve to look surprised when she all but jumps several feet in the air and turns to regard him in shock.

“Did you have to say that from exactly zero distance away?” She says in petulant alarm, her hand coming up to clasp at the offended ear in some hopes to hide the growing blush, “Or were you under the impression that I’ve begun to go _deaf_?”

The group halts only for a pause as he watches her, eyebrows up, before his features smooth over and he murmurs, “We were informed there were bandits in the area, I did not wish to alert any to our presence.”

She stops, swings around to point her finger at him, and says, “From now on, you will stay the distance of a nug away from me. And I mean a full grown nug, not a baby or a runt or any of those weirdly bred small domestic ones.” she demonstrated with her hands the exact amount of space she would find preferable for such an arrangement. She turns back and they continue on their course.

After a considering pause, she hears, “Apologies, Herald."

She glowers, grumbling under her breath as she turns back around and points them towards the general area she knows the cave resides at, “Oh herald you, hnmgnggnmmdm.”

For his part, he doesn’t say anything at that, but she knows with every twitching, magic infused fibre of her tiny body that he has raised his eyebrows in bemused superiority at her lack of finesse and wordplay.

Which really just does _wonders_ for her already foul mood.

\--

By the time they begin to hear the sounds of a nearby demon, Solas has already managed to somehow, without her seeing or hearing him, piss her off even more than she thought capable. Which is a feat in and of itself, because she's got a pretty high anger limit to reach. She’s also fairly certain small sparks are flying from her feet, which the party, to their credit, does not comment on, though she knows for a fact that behind her back glances are being exchanged faster than the Orlais Fine Cloth Market or the Ferelden Puppy Breeding Market (not together, of course).

She’d forgotten about the elf woman at the front of the cave, which surprises her momentarily out of her stupor enough to greet the Dalish elf with actual, genuine surprise.

She is fairly certain nothing bad had come of allowing the elf to join them, and she certainly wasn’t one to dismiss another Dalish in need, especially one who had lost her clan, a familiar pain ringing in her chest. These were the true victims of Solas’ actions, people who had never deserved the fate he’d decided to force on them, the lives he’d been willing to trade when they were not his to give.

And if having another Dalish in the group, if only for a short while, pisses the prick off, then mores the reward.

So forward they trot, everything seeming definitely fine, tromping off to grab an artifact for fen fucker harel, when they reach the cave entrance, and Mihris decides to open her sweet little mouth and say -

Only, what, five words? Six if the noun at the end is separated.

But Twigs is fairly certain the last two are meant to be interpreted as one word.

“Can you manage this, flat-ear?”

And then suddenly she remembers everything that happened last time they did this. The way her ears had flattened against her head, but that she hadn’t spoken up because she hadn’t known Solas well enough. The way he’d answered in a clipped tone and shown his prowess. The way his shoulders had stiffened, and his gaze had turned icy. That she hadn’t known his tells well enough, thought he hadn’t seemed to mind very much, so she hadn’t, either.

Only, this time she finds she very, very much does mind.

“Cassandra is very strong, but I don’t think it’s fair to relegate such a task to her, _Da’len_.” And her voice goes dangerously soft.

For a moment, time seems to still.

She knows she doesn’t have the same face she did in her last life, that could have been thirty or forty years old easily. But this face, youthful and round as it is, does have a timelessness about it, she thinks, and the assumption that she is but a child is due more in part to her behavior, spritely and exuberant, then to actual age.

So she knows that when the others turn back in surprise, Mihris and Solas alone knowing the true intent of the conversation, they do not see the bright, animated face of the Twigs they are familiar with.

Her smile is fixed so falsely on her face, she knows it startles Cassandra, and the venom in her words catches Varric’s eyebrows, but most of all, Solas only seems to tilt his head appraisingly as he meets her dark and glittering eyes.

She said her warning, now let her prove it.

Before anyone had turned back, she sends out a pulse of magic, a little stronger than necessary, but she’s of the definite vein of thought that angry mages are more powerful than sleepy mages, and she’s about as far from sleepy as she can get at this point.

The cracked pillar structure rearranges itself, announcing its intent to revert with loud groans and the sound of scraping stone.

The group startles back to look at the sudden noise in so close proximity.

“There. All fixed.” She says, ichor nearly dripping from her cheery exclamation, “Let’s see what’s inside, shall we?”

Mihris’ ears are pointing down as she leads the group in. And as Twigs brushes past to “examine” the veilfire, she sees only confusion writ plain across the Dalish elf’s face.

That’s fair, honestly. And if it gives the woman pause in how she speaks to Solas, it’s enough for Twigs.

At the very least, Mihris is baffled, probably wondering if she said it so wrong that the meaning could go right over Twigs’ head, and Solas, if she’s lucky, just thinks Twigs is so stupid she misunderstood.

The when she turns ever so slightly and catches his thoughtful gaze, she looks away just as quickly.

Yeah, as if she’s been lucky in regards to Solas so far, she thinks dourly, picking up the empty sconce and setting the mage fire into the bracket.

It feels…weird. Not like the other magic she’s done before. Like it… pulled, slightly, on the fire, tugged it into place and shaped the result before she’d finished casting the spell.

Was that the sympathetic magic that Solas had been going on about?

“I have heard of this before.” She hears the Fade advisor in question speak up.

Just to be a dick, she cuts in, “Veilfire, yeah. I think your doo-wacky is this way.” She gestures towards the depths.

He regards her with appraising interest, ignoring her complete disregard for conversation, “You are familiar with it?”

“You can use it to reveal runes.” She says factually instead of answering, and without waiting for him to notice, she turns on her heel and descends.

—

“You’re an ass, you know that?” She yells nearly fondly at Cassandra after the second time the warrior had bumped into the hand holding the torch aloft and knocked if from her grasp.

“Apologies, Herald.”

“Don’t call me Herald.”

“Lavellan.”

She scowls when she sees Mihris perk up from the other side of the cave before darting through another doorway. She bends down and snatches the torch up to wave it towards Cassandra.

“Here, you know what? You hold it.”

Before Cassandra can express how very much she does not want to do that - if her expression of growing panic is any indication, Solas speaks up.

“That would be unwise, seeing as she is the only one among us capable of wielding a shield and there are three of us capable of casting magic.”

“ _You_ hold it then.” She says with a twitching “smile".

“As you are the most familiar with the veilfire magic, it seems best that the torch stay with you, Herald.”

She spends a long moment thinking about whether she’s more pissed off that he called her Herald or that he’s just being an ass.

“How else are you ever going to learn how to use it, my dear Solas? I thought you liked learning?"

He raises an eyebrow at her and then she knows he’s waiting to see if she is, indeed, going to throw a fit.

If not for the satisfaction that would undoubtably cause him, she would have thrown the veil fire torch down, cracked her knuckles, and proceeded to show him what a tantrum could _really_ look like.

Just as she’s thinking that she needn’t have picked the stupid thing back up again anyways, and the logistics of how hard she could viably thrown it against the wall directly behind Solas, Mihris pops up from the other doorway and says, “Is there a problem?”

“No.” She growls out, and stomps over to the same doorway, “Come on, there’s probably more demons down this way.”

They started down the steps. At least she could see better than everyone else with this thing.

“How can you tell?” Cassandra asked after they settled into a rhythm.

“I can sense it in the Fade.” She said sarcastically, hoping they could feel the mental air quotes she was doing as she said it.

The Dwarf spoke up, “Well if it isn’t just-"

Before he could finish, however, the hall opened up into a vast room inhabited by nothing other than demons.

“I hate it when I’m right.” She growls as she dodges to evade one of the wisp’ projectiles.

“I was under the impression that you quite enjoyed it.” Solas said smoothly as he brought down a barrier that shielded her and the rest of the party from a close follow up.

He offered her a hand up from where she had crouched on the ground.

A second too long, but she still took it, and was proud of herself for that.

“Or perhaps I’d misinterpreted the following actions as a victory dance, in which case I apologize profusely, as I’m very unfamiliar with Dalish customs.” His tone was… cordial. Friendly - joking, even.

She wanted so badly to say something unkind to destroy the smile in his eyes. Or, no, that was a lie. She _wanted_ to want that.

But in the end she couldn’t.

But she couldn’t laugh along with him anymore, either.

“No,” she said gruffly, “We Dalish have verily improved on the ancient customs by adding both a Victory and a Defeat dance to our repertoire for specific occasions. Only a _true_ Dalish can distinguish the difference.”

Before he has time to process that, she shoves him out of the way of a screeching demon as she flings herself in the opposite direction.

Unable to wield her staff and unwilling to give off the impression that she’s powerful enough to fight using only one bare hand, she sets about on doing the only reasonable option left to her.

Fleeing the oncoming hoards like a terrified nug.

Which, despite Cassandra’s disapproving glance after perhaps one or two collisions because _Hey-I-was-looking-behind-me-at-the-giant-rage-demon-I-said-I’m-sorry-at-least-you-get-how-I-felt-when-you-kept-bumping-into-me-before_ and _no-this-absolutely-was-NOT-on-purpose-what-is-this-slander-I’ll-have-you-know-I’m-a-very-mature-person_ , Varric’s snorting laughter, and Solas shaking his head at the display, is pretty efficient at getting the job done.

The job, in this instance, being preserving her life while in the pursuit of demons.

“There.” Solas said once he’d stopped shaking his head, and she remembered the whole reason she’d bothered coming to this dank, stupid cave in the first place.

It was in the same place as last time, as lifeless as they always were before activation.

It looked so achingly familiar to a time when she’d been happy that she felt tears prick her eyes.

Of all the stupid - everyone knows the Inquisitor - Herald, whatever - isn’t supposed to _cry_.

Fuck.

She gestured towards it, not trusting her throat to not betray her at just that moment, and Solas bends down to begin the quick task of awakening it.

She’d meant to do it herself, and test what it did against what he said it did, because last time she hadn’t had magic, so she’d simply had to trust him, but this way everyone’s focus was on him and it gave her a chance to quickly wipe her eyes with a sleeve and blink away any foolish remnants of sentimentality.

And then the busted metal orb springs to life under his hands, green light springing forth to make even the pale veilfire seem dim in comparison, spreading over the the bones and vases left behind to gather dust.

And then she feels it wash over her, a strange sort of… yes, it did feel like it was reinforcing… something. Like suddenly the world she was looking at was a little more stable.

Even the veilfire flickered in her hand.

And whatever it was - the Fade? The Veil? - it felt like a slight pressure had been taken off her chest.

And then the silence was shattered, of course, by some slight rustling, the creak of a lid, and - “Well, that should prove useful. And it seems the ancestors left something for me as well. Interesting. I believe our alliance is concluded. Go in peace, stranger.”

Twigs feels her hackles rise dangerously at that.

She knows that last time she’d not called out to Mihris as a fellow Dalish to hand over the amulet, but instead relied on Solas to do it.

Not this time, of course.

She stepped forward, “And do what with it? We are seeking to close a hole in the sky. If that could be useful to anyone, it would be the Inquisition.”

For a moment she expected Mihris to make a mad dash for it, and wished she’d let go of her pride enough to ask for Solas’ help again, but then, almost before she can think about it, the amulet is being held out towards her.

“Here, then. Take it, and may it aid you in your mission.” Mihris said quietly.

Blinking, Twigs took it from the other elf, who quickly turned on her heel and made an exit.

Everyone stood quietly for a moment, as the artifact pulsed, its soft aura growing and then shrinking in a gentle heart beat.

“Well, time to leave this shitty cave behind.” A rough but hopeful voice spoke up.

She looked at the almost inconspicuous locket, elvish flourishes and curves adorning it’s tiny metalwork frame.

“Not quite.” She said loudly.

Then she twisted around, all but shoved the amulet into the stupid bald elf’s chest, and walked over to the general area that she knew a rune could be located.

She didn’t remember which one she'd found here last time, nor did she remember all of them. It couldn’t hurt to check again while they were here.

She has Varric copy it down when she does discover it, because he’s got paper on him and despite his complaints, he’s got to have pretty legible handwriting. She stands quietly, holding the veilfire torch steady as he grumbles and sets the charcoal down evenly on the page. All she can think about is that locket, surviving all those years only to be lost to destruction in another time, wondering if Solas kept it or gave it away, and all the little things she’d somehow forgotten. She lets Solas do all the talking as they ascend, exit the cave, and discover night has begun to fall.

“At least we’re out of there, about as rank as a dragon’s nest. And you do _not_ want to know how rank a dragon’s nest is. Apparently baby dragons don’t have the same sense of hygiene that the rest of us two legged folk do. No wonder they nearly died out - I wouldn’t want to risk living like that, either.”

Varric chatted as they set up camp, and she couldn’t help but smile - a little painfully - at the fact that Varric would, unfortunately, have to endure many more dragon nests to come, although in fairness, she was fairly certain he was referring to what Frederic would call “feeding pits”, which, true to their name, were indeed where the critters fed, although usually rotting flesh was just left to fester under piles of fresh meat, as dragon digestive systems were apparently pretty resistant to most problems associated with such phenomena.

How was it that she could remember only the most inane things?

She felt a tap on her shoulder, a brush of air at her ear.

When she turned her head, he was a respectable distance away.

Roughly the length of a full grown nug’s body.

“Yes.” She says quietly.

She sees him hesitate, as if he suddenly realizes how quiet she’d been and how soft her voice has grown.

It’s smoothed over, of course. Anything to preserve that precious mask of his. Dread Wolf forbid anyone knows how he truly feels.

“I simply wanted to say…you have done well today.”

“Despite the evasion tactics I employed while avoiding demons?” She said dryly.

His eyebrows lift and she sees a spark in his eyes, “Is that what you call it? Dalish have some…interesting tactics, indeed.”

“Not Dalish.” She says after a sigh, “I do have to give credit where credit is due.”

“Oh? And who would be attributed such a… creative… strategy?”

“Nugs.” She said simply.

It is a fascinating moment, watching him duck his head in surprise as he fights back a smile.

It leaves her equal bits aching and angry, but she’s too tired to act on either.

“That is…well. Definitely a tried and tested method, I suppose.” He still attempts to hold on to his serious demeanor, although a crack is running through his facade.

She looks away, expecting the conversation to be over. He never was one for much talking, unless it was the Fade. Then hours could pass.

Not that she ever really honestly minded.

“I…”

She blinks in surprise and looks back to see he is still standing there. He regains some composure, for what, she isn’t sure.

“I merely wished to express that I… admired the way you handled the situations presented to you. And… my gratitude.” His eyes met hers for a moment, and she blanked out for a moment.

Was he… thanking her?

That had never really happened before, she doesn’t think, and certainly not like this. A compliment-appreciation combo! What a day to be alive.

Although, when she thinks about it, in the last life she’d nearly tripped over herself to make him happy, to do what he asked, if and what and where he asked it.

It wasn’t too hard to guess that in the instance where her kindness or understanding or cooperation were hard to come by, Solas would probably feel the need to mark the occasion.

A slight, strained, “Yes.” Is all she can manage from her throat.

She thinks that’s it, that it’s over, she’s finished, but before he turns away, her pride finds it’s tongue again.

“I mean, just so you know, I’m having Varric document this so that later I can remind you with much glee that I have written proof that you literally stated that you admire me.”

“I said I had admiration for they way you worked on this one day in particular.”

“One day, shmone day, all I know is there were the words ‘you’, admired’, and ‘me’, in _that_ order.”

He has an expression of something close to disbelief for a moment, mouth open and half smiling, before he turns away and calmly calls back, “Ah, yes, too bad Varric was not here to be your witness, so such a document would be unverified.”

“Curse you!” She calls out halfheartedly, “And all those you hold dear, who hold you dear, your ancestors and your descendants, and also probably your livestock! In particular your druffalo, bronto, and any nugs in your position!”

She absolutely, definitely, does not melt a little inside when she hears a soft, ringing laughter, and a faint voice cry out, "A cruel punishment for simple cattle, indeed!" because if she hypothetically had, then it would have made her cry from how much she hated herself for loving him still, and everyone knows the fucking Inquisitor isn’t supposed to cry.

Fuck.


	10. Twigs Makes The Small Cakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'd be lying if I said I didn't think a lot about those lil' Orlesian cakes Solas is so fond of.

It started from a mixture of emotions, she thinks. She was in the kitchen, absolutely _not_ stealing a couple loaves of bread, because she would never _dare_ , seeing as she’s a _paragon_ of good behavior, when she caught sight of the cooking recipes. She wouldn’t have gone through them on her own, she thinks, but apparently Vivienne had been missing a little touch of home, and had specifically requested some little Orlesian pastries, and being the nosy little imp that she is, she was instantly drawn in by the cursive letterhead.

On the first note, Vivienne had been particularly vehement about the distrustfulness of spirits that day, and while Twigs adored her to bits and still harbored a deep, unbeatable love for the woman, she had very nearly come to blatantly ditching Vivienne in an effort to escape the endless barrage of criticism that the woman seemed capable of spewing in all directions at once.

_Not_ unlike a certain elfy apostate who had _also ___been present for the conversation, and spent just as sizable an amount of time attempting his level best at talking Twig’s ears off.

__On one side, Vivienne, spouting judgement on her trusting the spirit and the virtues of the Circle, and on her other side, Solas, just as disapproving of the Circle’s teachings and espousing the nobilities of spirits.

She had only been rescued when - she wasn’t sure which one noticed first and recruited the help of the other - Varric and Bull tag-teamed the two mages’s attention so she could dart away and crawl up to her room. After which she would promptly inform Josephine she refused to socially interact with anyone else for the rest of the day lest she accidentally set them on fire.

Which may or may not have lead to the missing of dinner.

Which in turn may or may not lead to her waking in the wee hours of the morning, stomach grumbling uncomfortably, and resolve to not leave her room wavering.

But she absolutely, definitely, would _never_ steal from the kitchens, _even_ under extreme duress.

No, she is simply… tasting and testing the food left over from the previous night. As part of her… survey. Of the food quality. 

Yes. That’s just what she’s doing.

She runs a tight ship around here.

She just wanted to make sure no one was slacking on food duty just because she didn’t appear last night.

The loaf of bread stuffed in her mouth is… merely her voicing her concern about the diet her beloved companions are subjected to.

She’s halfway through her imaginary conversation of denial when she notices it.

The ingredients are all laid out, a fair few higher quality goods than the usual common egg or flour.

It’s the fancy Orlesian labels. They have such tiny, delicate blue flower motifs entwining around the looping, elegant script, declaring it whatever expensive brand it is. It always demands attention - like most Orlesian things. And she’s halfway grabbing a knife to butter the bread with when she sees it.

She can almost see it in her minds eye; the note from Josephine imploring Lilieana to get a decent recipe for the cakes, Leiliana’s enthusiastic response, and of course the original request from Madame de Fer herself.

She remembers because she heard it right before the emotionally taxing experience where she was stuck between Solas and Vivienne.

All to make tiny, Orlesian cakes.

Like the ones Solas enjoyed at the ball. Not that they had gone to the Empress’ ball yet, although it was approaching.

Between being stubborn, self-assured mages with a sweet tooth and a penchant for playing those that thought themselves above them, Vivienne and Solas had an awful lot in common.

Not that Twigs would ever risk _saying_ that to one of them.

Not so long as she valued her extremities.

Which, considering her venture not just once, but _twice_ as Herald, must have been a moot point long past. She stuffed the piece of bread in her mouth and set the butter knife down.

The anchor flickered in her palm as she held it aloft to help illuminate the space.

Long, _long_ , past.

The rice cakes fill her with such a forlorn sort of sadness for a moment, an unnameable, profound ache, that she pauses in her exploration, and just stares down at the page.

He didn’t know yet, how much he would love them.

_He didn’t know how much she loved him, either._

But because they were all of them fools, it didn’t change much of anything, in the end.

Then there was a shuffling at the door and she slunk out in order to avoid any unfavorable interactions.

__

 

She finds herself thinking about the single piece of parchment for several days afterwards, but only in the quiet moments when it has no right to rise up in her mind for contemplation.

She doesn’t know how she got this far, honestly, without being pulled into that stupid, introspectivly mournful space, but the fact that a single piece of paper detailing how to make a pastry is what did her in just annoys her further.

_She still loves him._

In an awful twist of fate, the reason it hurts is not because it surprises her, but because it could _never_ surprise her.

That the foolishness of thinking she could choose whether she loved him or not was something she actually attempted.

Because she was an idiot.

And because he didn’t know how much he liked those cakes yet. That she used to bring some up for him when she learned they made them in the kitchens. That somehow, somewhere, he was already dead, because he’d already died, and now she was reliving the life without him all over again.

The others noticed - of course they did. Each and every one of them, in their own way, noted her faded mirth. Sometimes she was just too tired to pretend anymore, and the usually painfully effortless mask became too heavy and slipped off.

Cassandra with her narrowed eyes, watching her lean on her staff a moment too long during a rest from practice. Cullen with that worrying crease in his brow and the frown that echoed it when she stared too long at the war table map in silence. Josephine when she failed to come up with any boldfaced lie or excuse to get out of paperwork and simply accepted it. Leliana with that curious, bird like tilt of her head as she tried to reason her innermost thoughts out. 

And while her advisors were one thing, her traveling companions were a thousand times worse.

Vivienne with her appraising stare as she looked down at Twigs from above, short words becoming less barbed and just a hint softer when they were alone. Sera’s pranks on her somehow slipping to a stop and her presence but a companionable, chattery shadow at her side. Bull’s expression twitching as he analyzed her, seeing something was wrong but unable to draw a conclusion for it.

_Well my dead lover from the future ended the world, accidentally sending me back in time, and now he not only despises me, but also I realized the futility of both my attempting not to love him and the love I have for him in and of itself, because I will always love him, and he will always chose to ruin absolutely everything, regardless of what we try or want to do. Howzat for conclusions on my present state of mind and mood?_

Blackwall letting her hide out in his stables as he carved when he once would have insisted she leave because her presence made him uncomfortable. Dorian leaving out the kinds of books she liked to read in her spot at the library, the kinds he used to bicker with her over, insisting they were idiotic or drab. Varicc's expression growing pinched whenever he saw her, sometimes pressing a warm hand to her own for a brief moment as they passed each other, _"Listen, Firefly, I don’t know what’s up with you lately, and maybe you don’t wanna talk about it, but we’re here for you, okay?”_

Of course, it wasn’t okay. Not nearly close.

And Solas, gaze turning sharp whenever she flitted restlessly through his room without comment, as if he was at a loss about why her jabs and insults had suddenly fell to a halt. As if he wanted to say something, to ask.

But there was a gulf between them, one she’d cultivated on her own.

To separate them.

For her sake more than his.

And he didn’t know how to cross it; didn’t know why it was there.

Still it seemed like he wanted to reach out and pull her back, away from the abyss she was starting to descend into, but he didn’t know how.

How could he?

He already has her heart, anyways. Always.

_

 

She finds the folded parchment on her desk a week later, a scrawled note on the front;

_The dragon learns to cook with fire, a gift for the wolf, but they are the same -_

_A truce, not a surrender._

She shouldn’t give in. Solas didn’t deserve more energy from her.

He already has her heart, anyways. Always.

There’s a lump in her throat, but she pockets it, just because.

No one is sure why she whispers her gratitude to Cole the next time she sees him at the tavern, but they all notice the difference afterwards, and they’re all too quietly thankful to question much further.

_

 

In a strange sort of way, learning the instructions for making Orlesian cakes was the catalyst she needed to end the stagnation in her emotional disposition.

It revitalized her, to look at the words, study them, and attempt (poorly) to put them to practice. To put in this amount, and with this other specific ingredient, this specific way, and then cook or frost them for approximately this amount of time. It was ironic to her - or maybe she was misusing that term, but the feeling of irony and the feeling she felt when she stared at the directions were close enough for her to confuse them. Orlesians were very particular about what went in how and so and so. So much precision - so much control!

Twigs had about as much control of her life as she did over the grazing habits of Bronto.

She’s sure she could have _some_ effect, if she truly wanted to. But that would require acquiring a sizable amount of Bronto and then preventing them from grazing where they pleased, which seemed unkind and wholly unnecessary to her.

So Twigs learned to bake Orlesian pastries.

The results were…. interesting.

She wasn’t a very good cook.

She wasn’t even sure why she did it.

But there was that ridiculous, hopeless, stupid part of her that loved him - loudly.

And all she could think of was the Dread Wolf, sitting alone while his agents undermined the Inquisition inside out, and readied himself for his inevitable reveal, for repulsion, for rejection, for complete and utter loneliness. That other lifetime, when she’d known nothing, and he - everything.

And now the roles were switched.

She wishes that Solas had had someone to bring him Orlesian cakes in the morning and hold him at night after Coripheus fell. Listen to him go on about the Fade and fall asleep in his arms and wake up beside him.

Make him smile.

But he hadn’t, and it hurt so much to think he’d do that to himself again, and that all she could do was produce shitty quality rice cakes.

_

 

They were probably not sweet enough, or too hard, or gruelly.

She never really had the appetite to try one once they’d finished.

It was waiting for them to finish that did her in. Up until she sat there watching the oven, she was all for trying them, but then she’d sit there, and wallow, and of course she’d end up thinking about him, thinking about her, and thinking about the worlds that she was never quite good enough to save.

And then they’d start to burn, and she’d blink out of her reverie and panic, and forget about all the mopey angst stuff until she was standing in front of a bowl of slightly singed Orlesian pastries, sucking on a burnt finger.

They did smell pretty damn good though.

_

 

She doesn’t have the guts to offer them to others, because they make her too emotional and she doesn’t know how she’d handle criticism not to mention how weird it would make her current relationship with all of them. It’s too big of a risk, so usually she sneaks over to the stables and leaves them as treats for the workers (she doesn’t stay long enough to see if they get eaten by _people_ or unsuccessfully fed to the horses, stags, or lizard babies, which is an arrangement she is completely satisfied with). 

But sometimes she ends up making them and it’s too late because everyone’s gone home, or she doesn’t have time to sneak over the stables so she packs them up and sticks them in her pack.

She can’t really do anything _else_ with them. A Dalish won’t put ~~good~~ edible food to waste, that’s for certain.

Although it’s arguable if what she generally ends up doing with them can be classified as not a “waste”.

She usually ends up putting them in front of the wolf statues as offerings.

Like he deserves it. Like he needs _more_ from her.

He already has her heart, anyways. Always.

It’s a joke, see, because she can never manage to take a bite, and even if the act of making them might not be ironic (it is, she thinks, and Varric would probably happily explain the intricacies of irony and plot development to her if she dared ask) but certain, sticking them in the little bowls for Fen’Harel never ceases to give her a hearty dose of pained amusement.

It only makes her smile so long before she has to turn away again because it begins to hurt more than it helps.

__

 

She knows they want to ask, when she does it. (She needs to be more sneaky, but it’s too late now she supposes, as she stoutly ignores the weight of their idle stares on her back.)

Solas wants to speak, she knows it, and it does make her smile quietly to herself knowing he’s going through the internal struggle of saying something about Creator worship and not saying anything about Fen’Harel.

Meanwhile Cassandra is itching to ask about her beliefs, about these Creators, and the Maker, and being Herald and Andraste. But she too keeps her tongue.

And of course Varric just wants to _know_ , because he’s just as nosy as she is, and Trickster stories, and Merrill talked about that guy sometimes, right?

Varric is the only one to ask her about it later, of course. Cassandra yet might, some distant day when she feels closer to Twigs, and Solas, of course, will sit on his words until they swallow him whole.

“So what’s up with the wolf statues? I thought Dalish weren’t fond of Fennarel.”

“ _Fen’HArel._ ” She’ll respond with, of course, packing her blanket more securely in her bag, “And some aren’t.”

“I’m sensing a but here, Twigs.”

“A butt? Where? I didn’t know they had any Brothels this far into the wilderness.”

It would get her a chuckle, but Varric would get the message. She wasn’t going to talk about it.

Or, in Varric’s mind, perhaps he’d receive the message and add an addendum - “ _She wasn’t going to talk about it, add. ‘without copious amounts of alcohol involved’._ ”

What would she even admit to, anyways?

Later, after they return from the venture, she’ll barely be through the door dropping him off at the tavern and she’ll feel him pause as he considers inviting her to stay a while, sit with them. She rarely has time for it, and though she doesn’t drink, she loves to laugh, and smile, and be near them.

But she has the itch to bake, and though he does’t know _what_ it is, he can see she has something drawing her away, so he just gives her a slightly put out wave and a barely convincing “Next time, Twigs.” as she makes her escape.

_

 

Orlesian pastries are not the only recipe she uses, of course. They’re the only ones she leaves in front of the Fen’Harel statues, but they’re not the only thing she tries.

(Emphasis on “ _try_ ”, mind you.)

She’d go mad baking the same thing over and over again (well, she does. But not _only_ that!) so she collects random recipes here and there, as long as no one is paying attention. She thinks Cole adds some to her meager collection when she’s not looking, but she’s not going to complain.

And sometimes he sits with her while she’s testing them out, to chase away the lonely thoughts.

One time, she has him taste them, because it is a _shame_ no one ever has them fully fresh, and he’s the only one that won’t make the experience strange or nauseating.

He’s sitting there on the windowsill, long legs dangling, face blank with confusion, a bite in the pasty several inches from his face as he seems alarmed by the task suddenly set before him.

“ _Well?_ ” She is absolutely _not_ wringing her hands, mind you. There’s an itch. On her fingers.

“I don’t know.” He sounds so befuddled.

“You don’t know what?” She says, a little more desperately than she wants to. Damn. Gonna have to work on that nonchalance. Good thing Cole wouldn’t notice the acting anyways.

“I don’t know if they’re good.” He says, responding the to question on repeat in her mind.

“Well are they _tasty_?”

“Like lyrium dust and elfroot, the sigh in a storm, comfort and cleverness, the tang of old metal ringing bright -“

She starts loudly saying “No" half-way through that, waving her hands in annoyance and getting up as she does so.

“Never mind.” She says once he stops with a humorless chuckle, a hand to her forehead “My fault for asking.”

Cole’s hat seems to wilt slightly.

She waves him off, “I’ll stick to sneaking them over to the stables. I don’t really want to know the truth anyways. As long as you don’t go around telling people that when they ask about the offerings, we should be good.”

“Stone eats rice, but the man she loves is dead or doesn’t know it yet.”

“Yeah, exactly. _Don’t_ say that.” 

But she’s laughing a little as she turns around to check on the next batch.

_

 

Of course, like all secrets, her moment of anonymity had to draw to an end at some point.

To his credit, she doesn’t blame Cole for how it happened.

Bull and Varric are practically interrogating him about the snack leaving at the stables. Twigs is sitting a fair couple of seats away, but that’s because the other two command the attention, and she just wanted to sit quietly. Cole, in a similarly rare display of being amongst the public at the tavern, was unfortunately caught between the two inquisitive minds.

Twigs says goodbye to her blissful freedom of mysterious baker right that moment as she takes a long drink of her drink (the sort of stuff Sera would call “piss weak” and Dorian would sniff at as “Barely alcoholic enough to beat rotting grapes”). 

The funny thing is, they seem to think it’s _him_.

“I don’t leave the pastries.” Cole remarks in that slightly baffled manner all his own as he sits between the two conniving characters. 

“Sure, kid, but that’s exactly what the person who _does_ leave them would say.”

“Yes, she would.” Cole agrees, which makes Twigs choke a little during the next sip, but only on laughter.

“A _she_ , huh? What do you think, Varric, honest slip or well placed lie to turn us off the trail.”

“Shit, I don’t know. Cole doesn’t _like_ lying, but I think he’s gotta have the best poker face in the establishment.”

“Unfortunately, Ben-Hassrath training doesn’t really cover spirits who’ve taken on human form.”

“Neither does gambling at the Hanged Man.”

They resume fevered whispering, with the occasional complaint or question from Cole, who was speaking at normal volume.

Twigs chuckles quietly into her drink, since she loves them, because even if they’re idiots, they’re _her_ idiots.

She thinks a little too soon she might have gotten away Scott-free, when of course, Bull leans back (there’s a pitiful groan from his seat as he does so), and calls out to her.

“Boss, you think you can make the kid talk?”

Well.

She leans back and sees the hopeful looking Varric, grinning Bull, and miserable Cole sandwiched between them.

Cole looks mortified.

“Why do you want to know so bad?” She calls back.

The two look at each other.

“...We may have taken bets.” Varric finally says.

She gasps in mock outrage.

“I know, I _know_! Not in your establishment, paragon of good virtues, yada yada yada.” Varric says before she can speak.

She gives an affronted huff, “Varric! Why you bastard betting and gambling under _my_ room, with funds possibly acquired from _Inquisition_ business. I feel so completely betrayed! And you know what’s the worst?”

Varric made the circular gesture of with his wrist as he took a drink, ushering her to go on.

“You _didn’t_ invite me! For shame.”

Bull laughs, the full body laugh that echoes a little and that she can feel in the wood of the bar.

“Alright, alright. Can you get him to spill? We’ve been grilling him for a while and he won’t crack.”

Cole looks her mournfully in the eyes, “I’m sorry.” He says ruefully.

She chuckles and sighs, “I expected it to happen sooner or later, it’s alright, Cole.”

There’s a long pause.

“Shit, Twigs, are _you_ the one who leaves the treats at the stables?”

Bull laughs loudly again and brightly as he slams his tankard down.

She raises an eyebrow at them.

“But, but - _Why?_ ” Varric says, gravelly voice wrote with disbelief.

She stands up with a flourish, “You know me, a more saintly, selfless person you _never_ did meet!” She boasts, a hand placed triumphantly on her chest.

It’s the cricket silence that makes her grin in complete and utter delight.

“Alright, now the non-obligatory bullshit answer, Boss.”

To be fair, she only answers with any modicum of honesty is because Cole is sitting right there and she doesn’t trust his judgement skills even remotely enough to blatantly lie.

_Because the man you think I hate is actually the man I love most in this forsaken world, but he won’t accept my love, and my only coping mechanism with the multiple lives I’ve lived where I’ve loved and lost him seems to be making shoddy replications of Orlesian pastries, that’s why._

“I’m a shitty cook.” She announces cheerfully as she swaggers closer, “And I figured anonymous donation would mean I didn’t have to know how bad I am and I’m not wasting Inquisition resources.”

The two stared at her.

“Stuffs pretty good, actually.” Bull says musingly, “That’s what the Chargers say, anyways.”

“I once saw Sera punch a guy going for the last one.” Varric agreed.

Rather than deal with the implications of that, she snorts, “Bullshit, Tethras.” She pauses, “No offense.” She adds with a nod towards Bull, who guffaws into his second mug.

“Alright, fine. But you could tell she was definitely considering it. And I _know_ she kicked someone in the shin once, I just didn’t see it.” Varric admitted.

She laughs, but inside something’s being to feel numb and hollow.

“Well, if anyone’s ever hungry and the kitchens are busy, send them my way, I guess, because it would sure save me a load of trouble walking them over to the stables. Also, since, you know. I need victims to try out modifications I make."

 

_

 

She doesn’t know how she ends up Solas requesting to taste some of the new version of the Orlesian pastries, but here they are.

This is happening.

She one hundred percent blames Cole for this. She doesn’t know _how_ , she doesn’t know _when_ , but she absolutely _knows_ he is to blame for this.

_

 

He takes a bite, and she refuses, _refuses_ to turn and watch him, even as it falls into pregnant silence.

That was probably a _really bad batch_. She wants so badly to _hope_ it tastes bad, to _hope_ that he hates it. Because then he could choke, she could laugh, and he would sneer and be on his way. Or she would sneer. Or they would both sneer and separate and nothing would come of this.

But she can’t stop her heart from beating madly in her chest like a damned fool, from feeling almost faint with nerves.

It _would_ be kind of funny if she threw up on him.

Okay no, it would be horrible, but a part of her might be able to laugh through the tears.

“You are a fair cook.” He says after a pause, some attempt at kindness.

“You don’t have to say that. I know they probably taste like soggy rocks.” She says, still facing away as she gathers the ingredients in an orderly fashion, going for light-hearted but worrying that he catches the waver in her voice at the end.

“No, they are… quite tasty.” 

She stops. Just… stops. And turns to stare at him.

It’s not even disbelief.

She’s fallen into a blank state, a numb place where she isn’t even aware of what she’s doing.

He freezes when her gaze falls on him.

He’s brushing the fucking crumbs from his chin.

She turns back around, and through sheer force of will about refusing to be some damn pansy damsel, manages to not simply flee the scene.

“May I ask… why?” He says after she assumes he’s finished.

She takes a moment to regain her cool. She is cool. Cool as an ice rune. Absolutely.

“You suggest something else?” She says faintly, still staring at the wall without turning to face him.

“I would have thought a Dalish recipe seemed more fitting than… an Orlesian pastry.”

She thought about that blankly.

It _was_ pretty funny that she’d chosen Orlesian considering her… unfavorable disposition, wasn’t it? Except it was _Solas_ who enjoyed them.

Which was kind of double funny.

She laughed, “I’d have to _know_ a Dalish recipe in order to make it, wouldn’t I? In case it isn’t obvious this cooking thing is a _new_ hobby. I used what was available.”

A thoughtful hum, and then very carefully, she notices slender fingers reach over to the counter at her side and pluck another one up.

“May I?” A deep murmur in her ear.

She would have shivered from how close he was, but she was just simply suspended in complete and utter incredulity of the moment.

This wasn’t happening.

It absolutely _wasn’t._

Distantly, she reminds herself he _would_ be predisposed towards them since, hey, she made them because he liked them, thus he was probably gonna like them regardless of how badly she made it, as long as they were edible (she she maintained they _were_ , because that was a point of pride. Her sweets may not be the best, but they were certainly something you could eat if you were starving in a Dwarven Thaig).

“Sure, have at.” She mumbles, even though her body feels like its on fire, like her skin is burning. It’s just so _surreal_.

The hand retracts with the mediocre cake.

“You still have not said why _this_ particular recipe, though. Surely something closer to home would seem more fitting.”

“What, like a Fereldan Dog Treat? Nah, this was just in the kitchen when I first saw it.” She did not add how it came into her possession, because mentioning Cole would undoubtably complicate the situation.

Soals chuckled under his breath.

Like a spell, the spirit appeared beside her, face clear and soft.

“Before she lost him, he loved them, and she loves him.”

For a moment time seemed to still, as she felt the horror of it all clamber into her chest.

“Oh.” Cole says in a small shocked voice.

She can’t even whisper his name as a reprimand.

This time she doesn’t stop herself from fleeing.

_

 

There is a wreath of crystal grace intertwined with Black Lotus outside her room on the floor the next morning.

She knows in a sick sort of way that Solas left it. It’s probably a symbol of mourning from Ancient Elvhenan.

Cole must not have told him, then.

There’s still a hollowness in her chest.

That he could do that to her, when he should have known.

Even if he hadn’t meant to hurt her.

She swallows and picks up the stupid basket-like bouquet, and wants to set it down somewhere off to the side, but can’t stop herself from walking over to the balcony and putting it there, because she knows it’ll distract her when she comes back in there to work.

She stares at it for a long moment, but can’t bring herself to throw it off.

_

 

“I am sorry for your loss.” He murmurs quietly the next time he sees her, without preamble or pause, without giving her a chance to escape.

She stiffens, but says nothing.

He stands and pulls out his paints, and stays with her a while, and eventually, because damn him, she relaxes again, watching his careful strokes along the wall, measured yet loose.

“I…It’s not your fault.” She says very very quietly, because actually that’s a blatant lie and no, really it _absolutely fucking is_ , but she needs something to fill the silence, because she’ll go mad without it.

“Cole is very upset with himself.” Solas murmurs quietly, not turning from his work “He has tried repeatedly to make me forget him saying that.”

It’s astonishing how good the acoustics are in here.

This time Solas does turn around, but only in shock as he hears a loud, comical slap ring through the air.

Her hand is pressed against her face.

She wants to laugh, to cry, to _something. Anything._

“He didn’t.” She whispers.

Solas pauses, hand still outreached towards his painting, body still twisted towards her.

He puts the brush down, cleans it, dries it, and sets it away.

He strides over carefully.

“I will take that to mean you didn’t ask him to do it, then.” He says, voice soft but wary.

She does start laughing then.

“Oh, _Cole_. You awful, kind, foolish boy.” She covers her face in her hands, but it’s not really laughing.

It’s never really laughing.

For the first time in years, in the most surreal twist of fate, Solas sits down beside her and holds her as she sobs herself past the breaking point.

_

Eventually, she stops making pitiful, pathetic noises against his chest.

Eventually.

How sad that the reason she calms down is because she wants to listen to his heartbeat, to know he is alive, and well, and nearby.

But that means also that he’s going to open his mouth. She wishes he would’t, not because she can’t answer, but because she will.

“How did he die?” 

A pause.

“I lost him at the Conclave.”

She glances up and sees Solas’ face morphs with pain, twisting in pity and understanding, but he is a fool, _a fool_ , he understands naught, not how horrifying the truth truly is, that _he_ is the one she lost, and _he_ is the one she loves.

The only thing he understands is that she lost her vhenan and it’s all his fault.

But he thinks _she_ doesn’t know, as he comforts her for the life lost that _he_ took, when the truth is _he_ doesn’t know, and damn him because he chose this, even unwittingly.

He chose this over her, to do this to her.

So the only reason she doesn’t correct him is that he isn’t wrong about the guilt he feels.

_

 

At some point, there are the sounds of someone coming down the stairs. She tries to collect herself for Dorian, sits up, wrenching herself slightly out of the warm grasp of Solas’ arms, though not completely, the cold air rushes between them, and for a full beat she aches to sink back into the embrace.

She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, and blinks them back open to see…

Leliana?

She is watching - always watching, head tilted _just_ slightly, eyes lidded but sharp, voice soft but knowing.

Leliana speaks up then, when she sees she has Twigs’ attention, “We should talk.”

Twigs normally _adores_ hearing Leliana speak, because that _accent_ is something else, but even Solas seems affronted by the idea.

“She is obviously not in any state to -“

Leliana holds up her hand carefully.

Twigs sighs.

She had to face the Real World at some point, right? Besides, better to curb this whole “touchy feely” business with Solas now, otherwsie he’ll think it’s a _thing_ and now they’re _friends_ and she can absolutely not afford that.

She gives a slight groan as gets up and off the couch, straightening herself out.

“Right. What’s up?” she says as nonchalantly as possible while she has drying tear tracks on her cheeks to someone who probably heard the echoes of her gross sobbing for the past half hour.

Solas gets up behind her and after a decidedly unimpressed silence swiftly makes his way back to his desk and sits down - somehow managing to be completely calm and together while still seeming annoyed in a very angsty, teenager way.

Despite everything, Twigs has to bite down a smile.

He shuffles some papers - with a note of controlled anger - and sets about scrawling something on the parchment in front of him and sipping from his cup of water in fuming quiet.

Leliana glances back at him uncertainly, and then her eyes follow the curve of the room - winding around at the public space and the Secret Stuff she probably didn’t want to mention.

Well tough luck, because Twigs _really_ hadn’t wanted to ever leave Solas’ arms ever but we can’t all of us, always have what we want, can we?

She raised an eyebrow at Leliana expectantly, making the statement clear -

_If ya got something to say, say it._

To Twigs’ complete and absolute surprise, Leliana asks about one thing in particular.

"There were no reports of another Dalish elf traveling with you to the Conclave.”

Suddenly Twigs is tired again. She supposes this _is_ what she gets for crying in a public space where anyone within earshot of the vaguely echoey walls can hear she has a deceased lover. Wonderful.

Thank you _very_ much, Cole. She hears a pause in the scratch of a quill on parchment, and again, almost smiles as Solas pauses in his work to look vaguely upset with the idiocy of the world. For once she’d kind of agree?

She leans heavily on the wall, wondering what will come of this conversation.

Here goes nothing.

“I never said he was _Dalish_.”

She doesn’t turn to _look_ at him, because then every would know she was watching for his reaction, but out of the corner of her eye, she sees Solas’ expression of distaste suddenly blank.

Oh, the self control required to not burst out laughing.

“Then what was he doing there?” Leliana pressed, not unkindly.

Report stuff, Twigs figures. It was fair, since she hadn’t thought to mention the death of her companion and lover when the Breach first opened.

Solas picks up his cup and simply smells it rather than taking a sip.

Too bad.

Twigs would have liked to see him choke.

Twigs chuckled humorlessly, “What, an apostate has to be Dalish in order to want to see what the humans are planning to do next that might change everything?” She leaned farther to face the mage at the desk and called out, "Sorry, Solas, guess you’re pretty suspicious now. Man, it’s a good thing you realized that, kept _away_ from the sword brandishing religious zealots, kept away from the hole in the sky spewing _demons_ , and no one needed a Fade specialist. Phew. I ever tell you how remarkably smart you are?”

Solas puts the cup down slowly.

He was processing that, she thinks. Not Dalish, but she didn’t discount him being an _elf_ \- a mage, but then more so, an apostate. 

She _was_ describing him rather accurately, wasn’t she?

Leliana considered her rather curiously for a moment, but then nodded.

Hopefully she had passed the test with her blatant obfuscation and nervous chatter.

Leliana knew she handled grief with humor, after all.

A hand brushes her shoulder, and the Nightingale departs, which is enough for her to know this means nothing to their friendship, and she is sorry.

Well, Leliana doesn’t have to be sorry.

Fen’Harel ended up killing her, too.

Somehow she’d gotten introspective the moment Leliana stopped analyzing her, and she’s staring at the floor with her arms crossed, remembering the loss when she comes back to herself.

Solas’ eyes are on her when she looks up.

He looks like he might say something, but she can’t.

She did promise herself this wouldn’t bud into a friendship, didn’t she? That they wouldn’t do what they always ended up doing?

So when he opens his mouth, she flees before he can say anything that will make her want to stay.

Because she’s never wanted to leave.

_

 

They don’t talk about what happened.

It’s for the best, that way.

She thinks Cole has to do with that in some manner, and she’s thankful.

But she still gives the spirit a couple of pastries when she finishes so he can drop them off on an apostate’s desk when he’s not looking.

Fade knows she can’t let herself got close enough without fear that she’ll leave more than treats.

He already has her heart, anyways. Always.


	11. Wasn't It Always Like This?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the very end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a dumb story about the Fallow Mire but this happened instead.

They were both fools, weren't they?

"I'd have ended it all if I could." She whispered, watching the chaos unfold across the distant landscape.

"Would you?" He says, watching with her as the world begins to fall apart.

"Yes."

The screams are getting louder - closer.

"Am I to take it this is in the same way you meant it when you told me you would have killed me if you could?"

She doesn't reply.

He knows how many chances she had.

The horizon darkens with the loss of the veil, but she knows already that it's about to get bright, impossibly bright. 

Because the Fade flowing over the landscape was catastrophic, yes, but the moment everyone died was actually when the veil collapsed in a burning, raging mass of unbound energy.

His expression twists as he sees the horror of it all, begins to realize his mistake.

She'd seen that expression before.

"Sometimes I wish you had." He whispers.

She turns towards him, and he'd never noticed she'd been crying - but that might be the light. It was starting to get painful to look at.

"I know." She says quietly.

He begins to say something - sorry, she thinks but by now their voices are broken and her ears can't catch anything beyond the horrible white noise of the void.

The screams are in the air now, spirit shrieks on a violin wrapping furiously around them, and they feel the burn of energy on their skin.

And that is when the world ends.

In the last moments, she reaches out.

So many years forbidding herself of him, but it is only when he is about to be taken away again that she needs to know.

Her hand grasps empty air.

The screams around her reverberate to a stop.

Then it begins to wind backwards as time reconstructs itself around her.

She remembers this; tries to ready herself.

She gives a little sob.

_Alright, again then._

The sound pops back into place, and she cracks her aching eyes open.

She is kneeling on a cold stone floor.

Her mind is blank and her heart is somewhere in the rock below her.

Something green crackles in the palm of her missing hand.


	12. Meloncholy Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something to consider

She had thought, once, that she knew the worst way it could end.

That the most foolish of her actions could be to tell him too early, to let him know before he cared for her at all, that perhaps he might feel forced to kill her because he did not believe.

She knew he had killed some ally of his just to protect his plans. She knew he was willing to let the whole world die for the sake of possibility to bring his people back. She knew even as his heart, she had not been enough to stop him - that the darkest part of her was terrified of what would happen when he did not care for her. That if she told him before he was ready to hear it, he would kill her, and she would never be able to forget.

That it might destroy her.

So she thought that to tell him too early would only end in her death.

She had thought wrong.

But how much worse the truth had been.

___

She had not expected his pain.

No, that… that was untrue. She had not expected him to _show_ his pain. To revel in it, in front of her.

Too long she had spent gazing at his mask, hoping to peer through a crack.

Too long he had built walls and walls around himself to hide from her gaze.

So when he broke in front of her, for a long moment she was not sure what was happening.

He had spent so much time hiding from her, because he had not wanted her to see his pain. She knows it must have been selfless on his part - but in many parts selfish too.

This time he spared her no anguish when she knew he hurt.

___

The truth broke him.

She should not have whispered _vhenan_ to him.

She should not have said how many times she’d been forced to relive that nightmare.

Perhaps if she hadn’t told him so much, his guilt would not have destroyed him.

Perhaps he would not have thought killing himself was the answer.

___

She did not have to consider the options before she killed herself.

Knew that waiting too long might mean she might not get another chance.

So many times she had failed to save the world; this time she had failed to save _him_. 

Resolved never to do what she had again.

Never to try and tell him. Never to try and reason.

She spent so long puzzling over why time reset when the threat was dead that she realized telling him after he cared for her would have been the worse mistake.

Worse, even than before, since before was when Corypheus was still around.

When the rifts shown in the sky and the Breach hung suspended in the Heavens.

For if she had waited… perhaps time would not have reset.

Perhaps there would be nothing else for her to save the world from, and thus no reason for her to try again.

__

So she was careful when she woke again in Haven's Dungeon.

Made herself another promise to go with the first.

_Var lath vir suledin, vhenan._


	13. Broken Edges, Breaking Points

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU where she cannot do this again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this lying in the unfinished thinger for the longest time, but I keep forgetting/remembering that it was essentially finished.

The woman they meet who closes the rift is blank faced. Her eyes are empty. When Varric introduces himself she stares past him and the silence stretches out so awkwardly that he feels a deep fear that the mark has destroyed her spirit in some capacity. He steps forward after the long pause and introduces himself.

 

"I am Solas, if there are to be introductions."

 

A crack appears trough the emotionless facade of her face.

 

"We should get to the breach." She says, walking away, but her voice is shrill, and no one has the nerve to ask why she sounds like she's deflecting.

 

-

 

She doesn't speak for the duration of their efforts to reach the forward camp. When he mentions her Dalish origin, she turns to look at him, her expression so _startled_ , that he felt embarrassed at the question, as if he should not have spoken at all.

 

For someone in shock (He tells himself she is in shock, that her spirit was _not_ affected by the mark, she is _fine_ , she just needs time to recover), she moves with precision, adept far beyond what he could hope to expect of any Dalish hunter. He finds himself in a peculiar predicament as he tries to reason her out. If she is faking her emotional detachment and other mental afflictions, she is far more skilled at acting than he; if she is simply reacting to the dangers around them out of instinct despite all the trauma she has suffered, then she is far more skilled at adapting than he.

 

He cannot know how to feel about her being their savior.

 

The mark could have gone to anyone at the Conclave - a vicious Templar or mage, either willing to draw blood in the name of their war. A chanty cleric seeking to spread the reach of Andraste, a calculating mercenary willing to sell to the highest bidder.

 

And yet... he cannot tell if it for the better or worse that she is the one who stands on the precipice of this world's end, holding the only key to stopping Corepheus, unmoved by religious zealotry (as far as he can tell), or the sway of money (as far as he can tell).

 

And she does not seem to question the mark whatsoever, needs no guidance on how to wield its power. He should be glad that she does not fear it, does not curse it nor view it with ultimate suspicion.

 

Yet it seems she holds it with little regard at all. In fact, she seems to hold everything with little regard. Every moment seems to shock her, startle some thing in her - no, that is not right. Any moment during which someone attempts to  _speak_ to her, that is when she is thrown off. When someone goes near her, she shakes; when a demon spawns from beneath her feet, she does not even flinch as she finishes a death blow to one about to land on Varric.

 

Solas cannot fathom it. Desperately waits for some signal that her spirit is whole and undamaged, but cannot ascertain for certain. She is cold, distant, and quiet. Yet he catches her regarding her hands, watching tremors run through them. Which is true? Or perhaps, in some measure it is both. Though there was no such thing as a half-tranquil.

 

But then, no mortal should have survived the Fade, either.

 

_

 

She had not looked at him but once. While he could not say the same, their eyes met only briefly. There was something in her gaze that made him deeply uncomfortable. Was it tranquility that let her stare into him? Or was it the lack?

 

On the surface she was a young, grieving Dalish girl surrounded by an unfamiliar people, environment, situation, possibly with a vacant spirit. 

 

And yet something in the look she gave him made him feel as if already knew him. In that moment, she knew he had done it. She looked at him as the one she held responsible, expression free of rage and respect, face drawn. In that moment, he could not look away. There was a chill that ran along his spine, but quickly - too quickly, Cassandra walked through the line of their gazes and broke the spell. When he looked at her again, from his peripheral vision, her gaze was gone, vacant and pointed towards the empty hole in the sky.

 

He tells himself it is the stress of the situation, that he is simply overthinking things. There is no way she could _possibly_...

 

But he has also been telling himself that her spirit is fine.

 

 -

 

Cassandra halts them as they arrive, and the impassive gaze on the girl, actually sharpens to hawklike intensity as she watches the Seeker tell them she was going to speak with someone and she'd be back within the hour. They watch her stride away and enter one of the emblazoned Inquisition tents as the soldiers that had partially escorted them scatterer.

 

"She's going to go talk about me, isn't she?" The elf says with some dazed sort of fascination. She seems bewildered by the apparent revelation.

 

Solas is suprised by how soft her voice is. She had barely spoken before - and certainty never initiated conversation on her own. Although he is not sure if she is speaking to anyone but herself.

 

Varric laughs nervously and Solas decides to venture, "How can you tell?"

 

Perhaps encouraging further social interaction by responding would be good. He fears what about her demeanor might change once she comes out of shock. Better to safeguard a stronger relationship with the unstable, possibly dangerous Dalish girl now  _before_ she started insulting him as a flat-ear.

 

A burst of painful laughter emerges for her chest suddenly and then is gone.

 

"A guess." She whispers, still staring after the Seeker.

 

They stand awkwardly for many minutes as they realize she won't be offering more than that, until yelling is heard from the general direction of Cassandra, Leliana, and a Chantry Chancellor Solas does not know. As the yelling continues, he decides they probably won't be leaving soon after all, and it seems the other two come to similar conclusions.

 

She surprises them again with her voice.

 

"I...I'm going to - I have to -"

 

She looks around desperately and then points towards the tree line of the nearby forest.

 

"I'm not running away." She says, "I just need ... to breath."

 

Varric laughs, "That's _definitely_ what someone who wasn't planning to run away would say. What air is over there that's not here?"

 

"It's not about air." She says, barely audible over the background noise, and maybe she seems so absolutely devastated that even _he_ doesn't have the heart to argue with her.

 

She starts walking away, and a disjointed answer bubbles up from her chest, "I'm just - Dalish." she says, not looking back though it sounds forced and confused, like any excuse will do.

 

After a pause as they watched her fleeing back, Varric murmurs, "I don't want to have to tell Cass her prisoner escaped by walking away."

 

Neither of them does anything as they watch her retreating form slide effortlessly past the tree line.

 

-

 

After half an hour, bored of watching Varric tell the soldiers bad puns, Solas offers to go look for her.

 

"Yeah, okay Chuckles, try not to get eaten by wolves." The dwarf says, waving him off.

 

- 

 

Of all things, he finds her curled up at the base of a tree, sobbing.

 

Despite himself, the relief he feels from the display of emotion is overwhelming. A breath he had not realized he was holding releases into the freezing air.

 

 

Her spirit had survived intact after all.

 

She doesn't attempt to move or stop when she notices him, in fact she might even curl up a little more.

 

"Are you well?" He says after a moment, going to kneel beside her.

 

She sobs, "I can't- I can't - I -I can't do it."

 

He hesitates, taking in the situation. Likely she is not used to being away from her clan - surrounded by humans or "flat ears" no less. He will have to be careful about his disdain for their culture. She has not wronged him yet, and is showing a very vulnerable part of herself. If he wishes the breach to be closed by someone of sound mind, he will have to act carefully - tactfully. After a pause, he sighs softly before he sits cross legged in front of her.

 

"You are not alone . You are closing the rifts with relative ease and learning quickly. "

 

She gulps in pained gasps of air, and for a moment he thinks she is laughing.

 

She finally continues, "What's the point?"

 

Baffled, he murmurs, "Saving the world is not enough?"

 

"You'll just rip it back down again." she says, with such abject misery as she wipes her eyes that for a moment Solas is sure he misunderstood.

 

"What?"

 

"The _Veil_. You'll tear down the Veil and everything I saved is lost so what's the point? You'll just end -" her voice cracks, "the world."

 

He is frozen.

 

_She knows? How? An agent of Corepheus after all? No of course not. Perhaps the orb had latent memories of him and she'd recognized him?_

 

" _No_ , no don't look at me like that please, no." She sobs harder when she looks at his face.

 

He doesn't lower his hackles at first, but he forces himself to remain calm. She has not run screaming nor attacked him yet. Perhaps yet she can be talked to. Perhaps there is an explanation as to  _how_ - not that it matters, even, but if there was a leak in his - no. Too few knew of his plans, so if he had been betrayed it was by those he trusted most. Unless the anchor - the foci - has something to do with it. Then her threat to him had to be minimized before she told others.

 

He might have a chance to wipe her mind. Difficult, and obvious, but the alternatives were worse -

 

Slowly he un-tenses outwardly - within he is a boiled knot of confusion and wariness. He gives her a hesitant nod to continue.

 

"Imagine," she whispers, "Imagine for a moment that we are ... are friends. That I care about you and not about that. Please. Pretend for a moment you understand." She begs him.

 

An arm unlocks from her chest.

 

"Please." She whimpers.

 

A timid hand reached out, and despite the surreality and the extreme seriousness of the situation, he grasps it.

 

Trembling fingers wind through his.

 

"I do not understand." He confesses

 

"I have lived this live before." She whispers.

 

Any replies dry up and die in his throat. His plans of retrieving the necessary ingredients to make her forget fall apart in his mind.

 

He just watches her as the world around them seems to grow completely silent and slow.

 

"A hundred times - a thousand? Cole used to be able to tell me. My despair is too much now. It's not safe for him to be around me."

 

She began to cry again.

 

"I can't do it anymore, Solas - I can't. I can't. I give up. No more - _no_ _more_. I give in. I _submit_." Her voice breaks.

 

Solas knows that line of the Dalish, he knows, despite all his distaste for the culture they've founded on ignorance, what it means to them. He squeezes her hand for lack of a response and she begins to cry harder.

 

"You do not worry about -" he hesitated but she beat him to the punch.

 

"Corepheus is easy, always easy. But when you pull down the Veil, I -" a crack, "I _always_ \- again her voice wavers, "- wake up in Haven. No matter what. I can't escape. I'm so tired, Solas. A thousand ways to try and stop it - stop you. Nothing works, nothing matters. I can't do it again."

 

His throat tightens with the implications of everything she is saying.

 

She slings her other arm over her eyes and sobs as she says "I just wish I could  _die!_ "

 

It is not a confession. A whispered secret. It is a wail, anguish made physical. A need cried out.

 

What could be said? In the face of such abject, hopeless misery? Misery _he_ caused - to someone he may well have come to care for.

 

Nothing.

 

Nothing could be said.

 

So instead he tugs on her hand and wraps his other arm under her, lifting her into his lap. She fits against his chest as if she's known the feel of it by nature. Perhaps she does. That thought does not bode well in his mind, so he pushes it away that some demon might torment him with it at some later date.

 

He hesitates but eventually murmurs, gently, knowing how despicable it sounds, "You have not just killed yourself before-hand?"

 

Those who did not understand what it was like - when life itself meet ceased to be a form of torture - of horror, might have judged him for it. They did not understand the mentality. Death became a promised land. A prize to be gained by suffering through.

 

He knew that reality well.

 

"A thousand lives, and nothing works. Where do you think I was before this? _I was at_ _peace_!" She breaks, sobbing, "I was at peace." She is quieter the second time, broken slightly by hiccups and the fists balled against her face. This is a condemnation against him.

 

An accusation.

 

Oh.

 

_What had he done?_

 

Her reaction upon waking in Haven again began to make sense.

 

How many times had he unwittingly forced her to relive this?

 

"What happens when the Veil is pulled down?" He says, just to make sure. Perhaps it is not what it seems. Time becomes fluid - perhaps she just accidentally slips through.

 

 _A thousand times?_ He thinks incredulously at himself, _A thousand times, slung through the **tiniest** cracks of the universe to the same **spot** on the same **day**?_

 

Well after a certain point it _could_ become self sustaining.

 

"It all stops. Then it all resets. I wake up in Haven. I can't do it anymore, Solas. What do I do?" She is begging for answers he does not have.

 

 

"I am so sorry." He whispers.

 

She makes small painful noises against his chest.

 

"Why me? Why?" She whimpers.

 

"I am sorry," he repeats, clutching her tightly as grief consumes her and guilt consumes him.

 

"I don't know what to do anymore." She says plaintively, fingers tugging at his sweater like a lost child, "Tell me what to do."

 

"Have you never told me before this?" He asks.

 

"I tried. I befriend you until you know you could trust me, until you knew I cared but -"

 

Her voice catches and she sucks in a rattling breath.

 

"But whenever you smiled at me I couldn't -"

 

She shook her head as his hopes plummeted.

 

"I couldn't tell you the truth. What you were doing to me. I couldn't do that to you."

 

His grip tightens. A thousand lives to build up resentment for the torture he inflicts and _this_?

 

Her response is compassion?

 

"Never?"

 

She cries harder, and shakes her head violently, but he can see it is someone denying something. A lie that cannot be spoken.

 

Why? Because she'd told him and he still...

 

 _Ah_.

 

 

"I am sorry." He says, again, voice worn with regret for his future and past actions. For the unwitting victim who has suffered at his hands for a thousand lifetimes.

 

"I can't continue on anymore." She says, throat hoarse from tears.

 

She looks up at him. Wide eyes, pleading, bright.

 

Her next words chill his bones.

 

"The only way to stop it is to stop you."

 

She shakes her head at his expression, rushing to explain.

 

"I can't - not even if I wanted to - _if I had to_ \- I could never-"

 

Her face twists, eyes distant and tortured. For the blades she came so close to pressing to his chest. For the lives she could never choose to save instead. He can feel it then, the choice she kept making, that he forced upon her. He blinks rapidly to fight back a sudden pressure on the back of his  _own_ eyes. 

 

"Even when I hated you." She sobs, "I...I...I couldn't." She held up her hands, body shaking with her sobs.

 

He holds her as she weathers the emotions, because he can do nothing else in the face of his actions.

 

Eventually her expression calms and she slumps, empty and exhausted.

 

"I know the answer." She says quietly, "I could just... not save the world in the first place. Let it suffer and sicken so I can have peace."

 

She sobs painfully once more, the lie unwilling to live, her non-marked hand clutching his shirt as her small frame was wracked with the force of her pain.

 

"That is not the only answer." He says very quietly, grasping her anchor-less hand gently in his own. She looks up at him, expression blank.

 

"I cannot forgo my duty completely, but -" he swallows, hopeful, "Perhaps yet we can make sure you do not suffer for it. Check every option. And if we can't find a solution..."

 

He bent his forehead to hers, willing the words to dislodge themselves from his throat. But they can't. Not yet. He has held to his duty too long to let go just now.

 

Maybe one day.

 

"I won't have to start over again?" She whispers, eyes bright, but looking as if she does not even have the energy to hope for what he is saying.

 

He finds a voice after all, "Never again." he promises, quietly.

 

They stay there in the forest until the Inquisition soldiers arrive, a bemused Varric and furious Cassandra leading them. To his relief her ire seems to die at the sight of the tear-stained face of Lavellan, and Varric just laughs at him, "Aw, already in her pocket, huh, Chuckles?"

 

He watches her sadly as she walks beside Cassandra, who is asking her about what path they are planning to take, "I think she could use someone in her pocket." He murmurs quietly, "She has certainly suffered enough to warrant it."

 

"She's not half bad, you know. There's a spark there, under all the shit she just went through. What, are you gonna guarantee she never goes through any other traumatizing life experiences? 

 

"I can certainly try my best." He replies tiredly as she points Cassandra to the mountain.

 

"Well, sounds like all of her problems are solved, then." There was a pause, "Minus the hole in the sky." Varric adds thoughtfully.

 

Solas looks up at the Breach.

 

"Somehow I don't think that will be much of an issue."

 

"You know?" Varric says, grinning up at it beside him, "I don't think so, either."

 


End file.
